


Shine Bright (sink down low)

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Jedi Harry Potter, M/M, Sith Voldemort, the force probably doesn't work like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: Harry lifts his saber higher. “Stop,” he commands, “Or I’ll cut you down where you stand.”“Will you really?” the Sith asks. He takes another step, testing him, and Harry strikes. If the Sith hadn’t leapt back, he’d be without his head. Instead, the temple wall loses a chunk of stone that sprays into dust. And then the Sith laughs. “Oh,” he says, “Ilikeyou.”Wherein Lord Voldemort is a Sith with an agenda (though no one quite knows what it is) and Harry Potter is a young Jedi Knight who just wants to do the right thing.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 28
Kudos: 571
Collections: Flashing into the New Year





	Shine Bright (sink down low)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [flashing_into_the_new_year](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/flashing_into_the_new_year) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away a young Sith rises and a young Jedi grows to match him. 
> 
> AKA Tomarry do the new Star Wars
> 
> so two things: 1) this is mostly unedited 2) i basically just took everything i like from star wars (which is [redacted]) and twisted it all around to suit my plot and then added in anything else i felt like including, so don't expect any real canon compliance here 
> 
> finally, i didn't follow the prompt perfectly and this is more harrymort than tomarry, but i hope you enjoy anyway because this is the only place my brain wanted to go :)

Harry has only been on this planet for ten minutes, and he’s already sick of it. 

The air is thick with moisture, and with each step, his boots sink into the mud. He pulls free with a squelch and has to take a moment to just stand there, reminding himself to breathe. He feels something brush against his neck and, not thinking, smacks his hand to it, dying just a little when he feels something the size of a small rock squish flat beneath his palm.

He’s never doing a favor for Hermione again. 

With a shudder, he lifts his hand free of the sticky mess on his neck and wipes it on his robe. He almost looks to see what exactly he squished, but in this, at least, he decides ignorance is probably bliss. 

As he walks, it rains on and off—short bursts that are just enough to soak his hair and plaster it to his forehead, taming it for once in his life. 

Finally, he reaches higher ground in the form of a platform of stone as tall as his head. There are no steps in his immediate vicinity, so he indulges and leaps into the air, propelling himself with the force rather than attempting to climb the slippery rock face.

His old Master would likely chide him for being frivolous, but his Master isn’t here right now. In fact, Harry notes as he listens to the way the force rings through the forest all around him, there’s _no one_ here right now. 

Coming from Coruscant, it’s an odd thing—to be this alone.

With a huff, he pulls his robe tighter to his body, as if it might block out the rain, and starts walking toward the temple he can now see in the distance. According to Hermione, its most recent inhabitants, a gang of smugglers who were only dealing in spice running part-time, had amassed a rather significant collection of old texts and even a holocron or two. 

And he’s the only one she trusts to collect it. Well, Harry corrects himself with a smirk, the only _force-user_ she trusts. 

He’s certain Ron would have been happy to collect them for her, if he weren’t busy with his new duties as a member of her personal guard. Unfortunately for Harry, Ron is not a force-user, and thus would be unable to get through the door. 

Which means it’s up to him to hike across this bug-infested, soggy planet to collect a bunch of old books he’ll probably never read.

It’s super. 

By the time he reaches the door to the temple, it’s raining consistently, and so when he feels a shiver of warning through the force, he makes the executive decision to ignore it, as he refuses to walk all the way back to his ship when shelter is so close. 

This was probably a mistake. 

As soon as the doors to the temple, an old jedi sanctuary by the look of it, slide shut behind him, Harry feels as if all the warmth has been sucked out of the air. It’s not exactly comforting. He shrugs his robe off, hoping the loss of the heavy, wet fabric might do some good as he rubs his hands over his arms. 

Before going any further, he takes his saber in hand, ready to ignite at the first sign of trouble. 

Thankfully, he finds the smugglers’ abandoned stash easily enough, and it isn’t even that deep inside the temple. Even better, there’s only one trap he encounters along the way, which he disables with little more than a thought. 

He almost thinks he’ll get out of this with nothing going wrong at all when he feels a warning scream through the force, and he ducks backward into a roll that ends up saving his life as a blood red saber gouges into the rock at his feet. Eyes wide, Harry tosses his bag aside and brings his own saber up, taking some comfort from the blue light that shines through the darkness.

At the edge of the light, he sees something that makes his blood run cold.

Yellow eyes stare back at him from a pale face, noseless and scaled. This creature… He looks as if he’d been human once, but now… “Sith,” Harry says flatly, and the man grins.

“Jedi,” he replies. His voice is high pitched, reedy. His teeth are pointed. “What brings you here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Harry tells him. 

He edges toward the wall, and the Sith pivots to follow, keeping him in sight. Harry grits his teeth. The ceiling is too low to leap over him, and he’s certain he’ll be caught by that saber if he tries to go around. Which means… 

“That’s not very nice,” the Sith says, and he steps closer.

Harry lifts his saber higher. “Stop,” he commands, “Or I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

“Will you really?” the Sith asks. He takes another step, testing him, and Harry strikes. If the Sith hadn’t leapt back, he’d be without his head. Instead, the temple wall loses a chunk of stone that sprays into dust. And then the Sith laughs. “Oh,” he says, “I _like_ you.” 

Harry narrows his eyes, settles back into a ready stance. “Enough to let me pass?” he asks, because he has to try. 

The Sith tsks. “Not quite.” 

He opens with an aggressive attack, a swing so forceful that Harry doubts he could have blocked it if he tried, putting Harry on the defense before he gets a chance to retaliate, and then keeping him there. Another swing, and Harry pivots, letting the blow glance off his saber. He spends most of the ensuing fight looking for an opening as he pivots around the hallway, ducking as many hits as he deflects. 

There’s something almost… familiar… about the way the Sith moves. But he doesn’t let it distract him. He can’t.

Finally, he gets his chance. 

He pulls at the broken floor with the force, knocking the Sith off balance, and feints left before striking the Sith on his dominant shoulder, twisting his hand, digging his saber into soft flesh and muscle. 

The Sith shouts as he ducks away, rage and pain setting the force alight. A fraction of a moment later, Harry leaps back to avoid a knife to the gut. 

Panting, Harry backs out of range, though he keeps his saber up.

The Sith clutches at his shoulder. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be,” the Sith admits, all but hissing the words. 

And because Harry has never been able to keep his mouth shut, he says, “You aren’t.”

The Sith snarls, and Harry feels that familiar, instant regret well up. Why does he always do this to himself? Before he has any more time to ponder his many shortcomings, the Sith leaps, and Harry is on the defense again. 

This time, the battle is faster.

The Sith hits heavier this time, and Harry doesn’t trust himself to deflect any of his hits, relying on speed and his smaller frame to keep all of his limbs intact instead. 

The next time he sees an opportunity, he goes for more than just a hit. 

He goes for the Sith’s heart, and if the Sith hadn’t countered exactly as he did, he’d be down, a sizzling hole through his chest. And the Sith knows it. With a roar, he catches Harry with the force, throws him at the wall and keeps him down with lightning that makes him scream. 

When he’s finally released, he can’t even reach for his saber, his muscles spasming as he trembles on the floor. 

The Sith comes closer. 

He isn’t wearing shoes, Harry sees, and then he groans, because it’s such an inane thing to notice when an angry Sith is standing over him, dripping with murderous intent. 

“Where did you learn that?” the Sith asks through bared teeth. 

Harry coughs, rolls onto his side and spits blood onto the floor. He must have bit his tongue while he was under. “Fuck you,” he slurs. He feels a phantom strike roll through him and moans. “‘M not tellin’ you _anything.”_

The Sith hits him again, and by the time he’s recovered from the second bout of lightning, there’s a saber to his neck. _“Tell me.”_

When Harry shakes his head, the Sith brings his saber down beside Harry’s head, and he feels the vibration all through his body as the rock shatters. He rolls onto his back, does his best to breathe as he looks up at the ceiling.

He can almost hear his Master’s voice in his head, telling him that sometimes, a compromise is worth it if it means coming back alive. Harry has never understood this so well as he does now.

“Learn what?” he asks, reluctant, and when he blinks, tears drip from his eyes. 

The Sith strokes one hand down his cheek, a parody of gentleness now that he has what he wants. “There you go,” the Sith says, practically cooing the words. “Was that so hard?” 

Harry lets out a shuddering breath. “Please.”

“Oh, I _do_ like the sound of that,” the Sith says with a playful grin. It makes Harry feel as if he needs a shower even more than he did before. The Sith’s hand drags through his hair. “That move, dear Jedi—the one that might have cut out my heart. Where did you learn it?”

“Why?” Harry risks asking. 

The Sith clicks his tongue in disapproval, grips tight enough at his hair to make him wince. “Because I asked,” he says. Then, eyes narrowing, he asks, “Is that not enough?” 

Harry closes his eyes in defeat. He wonders if the Sith will kill him, or if he has more questions. “I learned it from my Master.”

The Sith hisses out a surprised breath, and Harry looks up to see his eyes widen in shock, then fury. “The name, dearest Jedi,” he says through bared teeth. “Or I will kill you right here, _right now.”_

Harry swallows heavily. “Albus,” he says quickly, sending an apology into the force for giving this creature his Master’s name so easily. “His name is Albus Dumbledore.” 

And the Sith’s hand in his hair turns abruptly gentle again, until he’s practically stroking along the edge of Harry’s face. “Yes,” he says absently. “Yes, I thought so.”

Harry has almost accepted his oncoming death when the Sith grips him under the arms, pulling him to his feet. When he’s released, he stumbles toward the wall, turning at the last moment to press his back to stone as he stares at the Sith, chest heaving. He summons his saber, and the Sith laughs. 

“Put that away, Jedi,” he says. “I won’t be killing you today.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, suspicious. 

The Sith smiles and says, “Because I have a message for your Master, dear one, and I’d like you to deliver it for me.”

For a long moment, Harry considers attacking, poised on the edge of this choice just long enough to feel the echoes of either path shiver through the force. Then, as he wrests his breathing back under control, releases as much of his pain to the force as he can without his vision going fuzzy, he powers his saber down, and he puts it away. 

The moment he arrives back at the temple on Coruscant, his former Master is waiting. 

“Harry,” the man says urgently as soon as Harry exits his ship. He cups Harry’s face in his weathered hands, then his shoulders, turns him in place to look him over for injuries. “What happened? I felt—”

Harry lifts one hand, halting his old Master’s concerns before they can spiral too far. “I’m fine,” he says, and he mostly means it. 

It’s been a day since he was hit with lightning, and his muscles have finally stopped spasming. It helped that he was able to slip into a meditative state as he piloted his way back, trusting the force to guide his path. 

“There’s something more,” Albus says gravely as he stares into Harry’s eyes, searching. “Something worse than injury.”

Harry bites his lip, then schools his features as best he can as he nods. 

“A Sith,” he says, and he knows it will only get worse. He looks away, gives the man some privacy. “By the name of Lord Voldemort. He says you know him.” 

He feels the way the news shakes his old Master, the way it nearly sends him to his knees. It’s his turn, now, to grip the man by the shoulders, to keep him upright. 

“We must speak to the council,” Albus says, voice faint, and for the first time since Harry has knows him, he sounds exactly as old as he looks. 

His presence in the force isn’t much better.

For all that Harry is the only one who’s actually met this Sith Lord, he isn’t allowed to know very much about him. He makes his report to the council, and almost immediately he is sent away to the Halls of Healing. 

It’s only the quelling look Albus sends him that makes him leave without protest. 

With a precise bow, he turns on his heel and strides for the door. Before it even fully shuts, he hears the rise of voices as the council begins to process what he’s told them. As the sound is finally cut off, he lets out a gusty sigh and lets his posture relax, just a little. 

He’ll hunt his former Master down later. For now, he needs to rest. 

As the days pass, reports start coming in.

All across the galaxy, there are new players rising, with new armies the Republic is unprepared to face. The Council sends as much aid as they can spare, and soon the days without a new death to record are rare. They’re losing Knights faster than they can train them. 

Every time, their lightsabers are sent back empty, their kyber crystals shattered into dust.

“It’s him, isn’t it,” Harry says, jaw clenched and back straight as he stares out over the city, teeming with life. “Voldemort.”

Beside him, his head in his hands, Dumbledore nods. 

“Send me—”

“No.” 

“But, Master—”

“ _No,_ Harry,” Albus says, and if he had any less control, Harry knows, he’d be shouting. He reaches out one trembling hand, and Harry takes it with a sigh, some of the tension leaking from his shoulders. “Please.” 

“People are _dying,_ Albus,” he says, voice soft. He closes his eyes, and he can feel the echoes of his fallen brethren in the force. “All across the galaxy. They need _help,_ and we can give it to them.”

“He will kill you—”

“You’re so certain he’ll come after me the moment I leave this planet,” Harry says. He squeezes Albus’ hand. “Why is that?”

“What do you know of Voldemort?” 

Harry blinks, mildly surprised by the question. “Not much,” he admits. In his mind’s eye, he sees a blood red saber and gleaming yellow eyes, and he thinks that’s all he needs. “Only what the archives hold.'

Which is practically nothing, Harry thinks bitterly.

“Well, then. Sit beside me, Harry,” Albus says. He closes his eyes, but not before Harry sees a tear spill free, down his cheek and into his beard. “And I shall tell you a story.”

And so Harry learns the story of Tom Riddle, former and fallen apprentice of Albus Dumbledore. 

In the days that follow, Albus avoids him, and it takes Harry tracking the man down and practically sitting on him while he spells out his forgiveness, his acceptance, for the man to look at him again. 

“You can’t keep me safe forever,” Harry tells his Master, after. And Albus only nods.

And Harry is allowed off-planet again.

He doesn’t die. He doesn’t see Voldemort again, either. 

Until he does. 

The Sith attempts to sneak up on him, and Harry meets him with a blaster to the forehead. 

“Uncivilised,” Voldemort says dryly, eyes narrowed in what feels like pleasure to Harry’s senses in the force.

“But effective,” Harry replies, pressing the barrel harder against the Sith’s skull. His finger itches to pull the trigger, but he knows that one death, no matter how significant, will not be enough to restore the galaxy to what it was. “What do you want?”

“The pleasure of your company, dearest Jedi,” he says, and Harry scoffs, lets his finger rest on the trigger.

It won’t solve all the galaxy’s problems, but it’ll probably make him feel better. “Try again,” he says.

Voldemort sighs, leans forward and looks his fill with burning eyes. Harry holds steady, and Voldemort seems pleased by it. “This planet’s monarch will be killed tomorrow,” he says.

Harry’s focus sharpens, searching for a lie and finding nothing. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Perhaps I like you,” Voldemort says with a careless shrug. Harry keeps his features blank only by the grace of his training, giving nothing away. “Perhaps it’s a test.”

“A test of what?” 

“Come now, dear one,” Voldemort says, letting out a hissing laugh. “That would be _cheating.”_

Harry glares. “You realize I could kill you.”

“Oh, yes. I think you’d do it, too.” Voldemort closes his eyes, remarkably certain of his continued livelihood, considering. “Only, I’m afraid it wouldn’t take.”

Harry almost falters. _Almost._ “What.”

“Through the force, dearest Jedi, all things are possible.” There’s a light to his eyes when he opens them again, deeper than anything Harry has seen before. He believes what he’s saying. “Any enemy may be defeated, even death.”

“You’re immortal,” Harry says, voice faint. 

Voldemort grins, baring all his teeth, and Harry pulls the trigger.

For a moment, surprise steals over the Sith’s face, and then his body falls to the dirt, and there’s no expression at all. His heart beating wildly in his throat, Harry watches the body for any sign the Sith was telling the truth. When nothing happens, he lets himself relax, just a little.

And then a power he has never known before splits the air, and he chokes on it as he falls to his knees, pressing his palms to his ears to block out the screams he feels more than hears. It’s as if there’s a hole in the force, a gaping maw sitting just beside him that threatens to swallow this and every world whole, and the feel of it makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Makes him want to vomit, and he does. 

By the time he’s recovered, the Sith’s body is beginning to heal, and he fears he might be sick again just from the sight of it.

“Sith hells,” Harry breathes out, watching with disgusted fascination as the Sith’s skull knits itself back together, as the force burns around him, through him. 

The Sith is immortal, he thinks hysterically as he scrambles back and away, blaster almost falling from his grip. 

The Sith is immortal, and Harry just _shot him._

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Harry says. And then he runs.

“What news, Potter?” Snape’s voice is the last thing Harry wants to hear right now, and he damn near throws his comlink out the airlock at the sound of it. Unfortunately, he thinks, his chest growing just a little tight at the memory, he has news to share. 

“I met Voldemort,” he says, and he shivers as he remembers the way the force buckled around him. The way his body— “He gave me a warning about an impending assassination.”

“And have you taken steps to prevent this assassination?” Snape drawls, sounding bored. 

Harry laughs, an edge of hysteria creeping into the sound. “Umm, no. Not exactly.” 

“No?” Snape asks, dangerously soft. “What do you mean, _no?”_

“Something came up,” Harry says flatly, and he tries very hard to feel as detached from his body and its panic responses as possible. “I need—”

“This is the _one_ objective we sent you there to complete, Potter. Are you truly so useless that you would—”

“I need to talk to Albus,” Harry says, interrupting. 

Normally, out of respect for his Master’s request, he does his best to remain civil with Snape. But he has neither the time nor the energy right now to do that. 

“And you will,” Snape says. Harry can picture the sneer on his face with perfect clarity, he’s seen it so often. “When you explain to him and the Council why you’ve _failed_ this highly important—”

With a huff, Harry switches his comlink off and tosses it aside, deciding that returning to Coruscant immediately is probably more important than trying to navigate a conversation with Snape. 

He makes it back to the temple in record time, and he doesn’t even need Snape’s presence to direct him to the Council straight away. Though perhaps, just this once, he appreciates it, as the man is displeased enough that his presence alone sends everyone they pass scrambling out of their way.

Albus takes the news of Voldemort’s immortality better than Harry feared, by which he means his old Master does not faint or die of heart failure on the spot. Unfortunately, this means Albus is aware and functioning enough that he once more attempts to ground Harry to Coruscant. 

Luckily, the rest of the Council talks him down. 

Unfortunately, they are unanimous in deciding that should a crisis even hint of Voldemort’s influence, it will not be Harry who is sent to deal with it. 

Harry would have liked to argue, but when the only argument in his favor is that the Sith Lord seems to actually _like_ him (or did like him, at least, before Harry shot him), a feat which most Jedi agree one should actively try _not_ to achieve, he knows he’s been beat. 

And yet, the force finds a way. 

That, and Voldemort has proven to be quite possibly the most tenacious bastard in the galaxy. If anything, achieving immortality must grant him that title _at least._

“You hurt my feelings, dear one,” are the words Voldemort chooses to greet him with the moment he returns to consciousness. 

Harry takes a moment to hope this is nothing more than an elaborate hallucination. Then he feels Voldemort take hold of his neck. He swallows, and Voldemort must feel the press of it against his palm. “By shooting you?” Harry asks, “Or by running away?”

Voldemort lets out a hissing laugh, something like approval in the sound. 

“The latter,” he says, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult, and Harry stills. “You see, I had hoped to see your choice.”

“My _choice?”_ Harry repeats, incredulous. “What choice?”

“About the assassination, dearest Jedi,” Voldemort explains impatiently, and Harry is certain his neck is going to bruise. “Do try to keep up.” 

Harry licks nervously at his lips. He says, “I was sent to stop it.”

“And would you?” Voldemort asks.

“I—” Harry hesitates, unsure what Voldemort wants to hear. He decides on the truth. Or, part of it. “I trust the Council’s wisdom. I follow their orders.”

“Oh, what a good, Jedi answer,” Voldemort says, mocking, and his hand drifts up to Harry’s chin, then to his cheek, tracing an old scar along his jaw. He digs his fingers into Harry’s skin, until his nails are one slip away from drawing blood. “Now tell me the _truth._ What would you do?”

“I don’t know!” Harry tells him, eyes clenched shut, leaning away from Voldemort’s touch.

“You don’t know?’ Voldemort repeats, voice soft.

“I would need to— to learn, to study,” Harry says, trying and mostly failing to control his breathing. “I would need to _see_.”

And Voldemort releases his hold on Harry’s face.

“Yes,” he says. He moves to pace a wide semicircle behind the chair Harry is chained to, just out of sight. “Yes, I thought so.

Then, whatever building Voldemort has claimed shudders around them. Somewhere nearby, he hears a door break, and Voldemort curses. Before Harry can ask any questions, demand any answers, Voldemort’s presence vanishes from the force, and Harry is left to free himself from his chains, an easy feat now that the Sith is no longer at his back.

By the time the Knight and Padawan he was partnered with on this mission arrive, he’s almost finished sorting through the things Voldemort left behind. 

Time passes, and nothing gets better.

Lord Voldemort remains at large, killing Jedi and toppling regimes, seemingly at random. No one is entirely sure what his agenda is, and no one who cares to ask is ever allowed close.

And the longer this conflict drags on, the less willing Harry is to sit by and watch, to wait for Voldemort to find him again.

“We should confront him,” Harry says as he stands before the Council. He’s had this conversation before, but he must keep trying. “He won’t stop, not unless someone _stops him,_ and to do that, we need information.” 

“It’s too dangerous,” Master Flitwick says quickly. “We can only hope to evade Lord Voldemort until an opportunity presents itself.”

“We’ve _had_ opportunities,” Harry says, and he only just manages to keep his temper from his voice. “I’ve said it before that I would like permission to hunt Voldemort down—”

“And each time,” Albus interrupts, voice infuriatingly calm, “You have been denied.”

Harry grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and releases some of this ire to the force. “I am the only Knight who has faced him and lived. If there is any logical choice to send after him, it’s _me.”_

“As you say,” Albus says. “ _If_ there is any logical choice. One might argue there is no logical choice at all.”

“So you’d rather he have free reign over the galaxy?” Harry demands. 

He feels the tension that thrums across the Council as its members reach for the guidance of the force. All of them find it lacking. Good, Harry thinks viciously, perhaps now they’ll be forced to make a choice. 

“No,” Albus says firmly, and he meets Harry’s eyes with a solemn gaze. “That is _not_ what anyone on this Council wishes, Harry. You know this.”

“And yet,” Harry says, “You do nothing to stop it. You send your Knights to die, and you let the the order of the galaxy be destroyed, and for what?”

“The force—”

“This isn’t about the force,” Harry says, wild. “This is about _you._ This is about your _fear!”_

For a moment, there is only silence, and Harry’s accusation hangs in the air. And then, almost immediately, all but Albus rise to their feet, scolding him, demanding he take back his words, commanding him to apologize. But Harry doesn’t hear them.

Because Albus doesn’t deny it.

Harry goes to him. He ignores the Council as easily as he always has, perhaps as he always will, and he kneels beside his Master’s chair. “Albus, please.” He takes his old Master’s hand. “What are you afraid of?”

Once Albus sends the Council away, Harry hovers awkwardly at his side. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. 

Finally, Albus breaks the silence. “Did I ever tell you about my first apprentice?”

“About Tom—?”

“No, Harry,” Albus says, staring out the window. “He was not the first.”

“Did they...”

“No,” Albus says, and his eyes look as if he is seeing something very far away. “No, my first apprentice did not fall. You see, it was I who almost…”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, quickly, “You don’t have to tell me.”

His Master shakes his head.

“Her name was Ariana,” he says. He presses his face into his hands, and his shoulders shake. “May I tell you a secret, Harry? Something I have told but one other?” When Harry nods, Albus says, voice soft, “She was my sister.”

“What.” Harry can only stare.

“She was so powerful in the force,” Albus says, wistful, “So familiar. I was taken to the temple long before she was born but I knew as soon as I saw her, and then I checked the records. She was my sister, Harry, and I—“

“She didn’t fall.” But she isn’t here, Harry doesn’t say. 

“No.” Albus bows his head. “You see, Harry, I too have felt the call of the dark side of the force. And even then, though the proof of my failure was undeniable, I was arrogant enough to believe I could steer Tom Riddle toward the light, and I was wrong.” 

“And you never took another apprentice,” Harry says, repeating the story the Padawans used to tell amongst themselves when they were waiting to be chosen. 

“Until you. And perhaps this was another mistake.” 

Harry recoils. “Albus!” 

“No, Harry. Please. Listen. That is not what I meant.” Harry settles back into his place by his Master’s side. He’s never been told why Albus chose him as his Padawan. He’s only ever guessed. “The force moves in you like no other. I saw you, even as a child, and I was afraid I would never see another like you again. I had grown complacent, you see; I had forgotten my lessons, and all I knew was I wanted to try again.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say. “You mean—” 

“My dear boy,” Albus says, “You’re a wonder. I could never regret that I—” He stops, shakes his head. “But I fear I have led you into a danger you cannot face as you are.” 

“Then help me become something else,” Harry says, desperate to hear more. 

But Albus doesn’t seem to feel the same urgency. “Did you know, Harry,” he says, solemn, “that Severus was going to be your Master?”

“Snape?” Harry grimaces, doesn’t try to hide it. “But sir, he—”

“And then I stole you from him,” Albus continues, as if Harry hasn’t spoken. “I, who would not take him as my apprentice years earlier, though he begged for it.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry asks. He feels shaken, new knowledge slotting into place, but he refuses to let this sway him.

“You deserve to know.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “You— you’re trying to upset me, to distract me. Why?”

Albus sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “When I told you that you cannot win as you are, I did not mean you could not succeed at all.”

This is it, Harry thinks. No turning back.

“What do I need to do?” he asks, chin up.

And Albus looks at him with such sadness, but Harry doesn’t let that stop him. Not now. 

“The Sith are not the only beings with power over life and death.” Albus folds his hands together. “There is a legend that tells of three powerful objects which, when held in concert, will grant the user a title: the Master of Death.”

“Are they real?” Harry asks, leaning forward.

“No one knows,” Albus says, though there’s a twinkle in his eyes that suggests otherwise. “The lessons you must learn will come not from possessing these items, but from _acquiring_ them. I can never learn this knowledge, because I cannot abandon the Jedi Order, and because I have proven that I cannot be trusted with it.” Albus bows his head. He grips Harry’s hand, takes a carefully controlled breath. “I cannot walk this path, but you…”

“I’ll do it.”

Albus bows over their joined hands, presses a reverent kiss to the back of Harry’s hand. “If you truly wish to become a force equal to Voldemort,” he says, solemn, “then you must seek these artifacts, this knowledge, on your own. You will not find them in any Jedi temple.”

“So I’m leaving,” Harry says, voice faint as he takes in the gravity of this duty, of this choice. "For good. And you... You lose another apprentice."

"Yes," Albus says. "My boy, if I could change—"

“It’s okay, Albus,” Harry says, not because it is, but because it will be. Because it _must_ be. “We do what we can, don't we? Well, I can do this.”

And finally, Albus smiles. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

**Author's Note:**

> i _will_ be writing more for this verse, but i don't yet know when.


End file.
